
Class PS 35 QS 
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COPnilGHT DEPOSIT. 



CANYON GARDEN 



MARGARET ERWIN 



CANYON GARDEN 






BY 

MARGARET ERWIN 




SAN FRANCISCO 

A. M. ROBERTSON 

MDCCCCXXII 



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COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY A. M. ROBERTSON 



SUNSET PRESS. SAN FRANCISCO 



©C1A690016 



FOR FOUR BOYS WHO WERE THE 
INSPIRATION AND SOMETIMES THE 
EXPRESSION OF THESE SKETCHES 



CONTENTS 

PAGES 

Canyon Garden i to 15 

Canyon Voices 17 to 27 

Santa Fe Limited and 

Desert Sketches 29 to 47 

Moods 49 to 66 

Miscellaneous 67 to 103 



CANYON GARDEN 



Come with me to my canyon. Let us climb 
down, down. Parting the laurel and the wild 
bank rose, riotous in its beauty. Down to this 
still spot. This bed of a mountain stream in 
winter. This place of rejoicing birds in 
summer. And in spring, — this place for the 
dancing of our souls. 



II 

Swinging willows and young green fern. 
Reaching tendrils of passion vine. The sky 
of a depth and strength to hold the 
birth-compelling sun to the warm and 
welcoming earth. I feel the rising blood of the 
spring within me. And a wild canary is voice 
for me. For my ecstacy, this ecstacy of the 
spring. 



Ill 

Today I must forget, forget. The throbbing 
in my throat will cease. I turn my face unto 
the sun. And draw my hair across my eyes. 
And sleep. I breathe my strength from the 
wind. My peace from the canyon night. 
Tomorrow I shall have confidence. 



IV 



Give yourself to the night. Let the wind take 
you over the hills and bay. Drift back with 
the fog along the canyon bank. And above, 
with the stars, look on time and on the many 
worlds. Give yourself to the night. 



Fresh from the springs of eternal things comes 
the canyon rain. Slowly at first, with 
rhythmic fall, touching the bay leaves, 
caressing, blessing. Then, — mate of the 
fragrant, wild night wind, conquering, rioting, 
deluging. Bending the oaks and the laurel 
low. Lashing the vines in the brook's mad 
flow. An exultant surge. 



VI 

The moon is blowing eerily. The wind is wild 
to-night. Go to the top of the quarry hill, 
if you can stand against it. The clouds are 
racing from its touch. It is full of stinging 
dust. The wind is in torment to-night. 
It has lost itself in the canyon. And what is a 
human soul to the soul of the wind? The 
wind that carries the worlds. 



VII 



She is at home. The smoke is rising from her 
chimney, straight and thin and blue. So full 
of grace it is, so mystic blue, it might be vapor 
of her dreams. She is at home! Heart, stay 
away. It will be wiser so. Your dreams are 
straining things and clumsy-limned and flame. 
Though she may long, let her not know. Can 
you be silent, heart? 



VIII 



Do you know nasturtiums and geraniums in an 
old California garden? Great matted masses, 
pink and scarlet, flame and purple, gold and 
orange? The glory of these gracious weeds, 
nasturtiums and geraniums. Their faith in 
beauty. Triumphant riotous grasses, reaching, 
running, covering unsightly deaths, deserted 
paths and feeble garden plans. Tame 
creatures grown wild. Each year the rains 
revive their failing life. Do you know 
nasturtiums and geraniums in a deserted 
California garden? 



IX 



One does not need hashish. A canyon course 
will do. Nor opium, nor absinthe. But a day 
intensely blue. Some high hills to dream upon. 
A spirit hand to trace. A cob-web shining 
in the grass with all its faith in lace. The 
eucalyptus near the sky, pillar of reaching grace. 
The quarry pool at twilight is the meeting place. 



My neighbor's houses run down the hill 
swiftly. They begin at a eucalyptus grove that 
touches the sky. At the bottom they slip into 
the sea. At night their lights are like spots of 
brilliance on a stream. 



lO 



XI 

From five to six, the women are putting on 
their aprons. And peeling potatoes. All 
fighting for peace within themselves. Only 
here and there a great, forgetting heart. Let 
them come out and sit with me upon the 
canyon bank. For peace is here. Slow peace, 
enduring peace. The elderberry sways, the 

golden-flowering broom The air is full 

of nature's harmonies. The blessing of the 
sun is on my head. The greeting of the earth 
is on my hands. And my sick mind is gone. 
Let them come out. 



II 



XII 



The whole house was about twenty by twenty. 
And the Uving room filled with the smell of 
Sunday dinner. Yet they sat there, such huge 
peoplej-a great woman by the window fanning 
herself, a heavy man with suspendered figure 
and a neighbor's massive wife. They sat there 
talking little things on a Sunday afternoon. 
And outside were the canyon and the foot-hills 
and far, beckoning mountains, great luring 
spaces. Yet they sat there on a Sunday after- 
noon in what they called the living room. 



12 



XIII 

Lovely lady of Japan. Iris blossoming In 
January, on my canyon's edge. Purple of the 
mysterious night and blue of the radiant 
morning. With my red curved scissors, made 
for you by your brothers, I greet you to prepare 
you for your destiny. Here in my turquoise 
bowl, in your gracious perfection, you shall be 
Heaven. And this rare blade of green, leaning 
away from you, shall be Earth. Between you, 
reaching and rising, with the silver rain of the 
dew on their bosoms, this stalk of buds. These 
three on a subtly twisting stem shall be Man. 
I lift you reverently. I bid you welcome to my 
house, upon the altar of my table. 



13 



XIV 



The canyon echoes our idle dreams. The day- 
is large and benign. Through interweaving of 
fern and bay the veil of the sky is very near. 
The bosom of heaven is touching the hill. And 

we lie very still. We do not try to answer 

There is a thrill of spring. And we could sing 
the answer. From the fog and the rain and 
the night, life and life and light! Into this 
garden of mine that grows at the end of the 
trail, spring and the whistling quail! 



XV 

Your voice is like the wind's voice in the valley. 
Your eyes have seemed to hold the light of 
summer noons. Your hands are quick with 
understanding. I know you in a thousand 
voices. In a thousand moods. And when you 
hold me in your arms, I know your soul as I 
cannot know my own. 



15 



CANYON VOICES 



I like to wear my rubber hat when the rain 
tapples on it. I like an umbrella, too, when 
the drops race from the points. But I like my 
rain hat better, because the sky water is 
nearer my head. 



19 



II 



Cornflakes to-night. I'm glad. I like them 
now. Almost I like everything but squash, 
Madre, my heart tells me squash is nasty! 



20 



Ill 



Precious, most precious, most infinitely- 
precious! Baby lover of the widest world, 
smiling at me as you drink milk of life and life 
of milk. Little fat philosopher, Jimmy! 



21 



IV 

You are so beautiful, my little lad! So soft, 
so dear, you make me glad with a great gladness. 
That reaches out to other babies on other 
stars. Come, let us dance our way to Mars! 
You know the way. You little, warm, sweet 
breathing thing, with marabout hair and 
apricot skin! My httle, lovely baby,-oh, we 
must have faith in human ends, when 
beginnings can be as beautiful as you. 



22 



Dear little lover of life, with your morning 
shout of joy. And your evening peace as you 
nestle down, a little sleepy boy. Dear little 
lover of life, I have seen you worship the sun. 
I have heard you answer the meadow lark, 
just when the day was begun. Dear little 
lover of life, you seem so wise and gay! Is it 
because you but begin, or, do you know the 
way? 



23 



VI 



My gay baby sits on the canyon bank with his 
brother's jazz cap on the side of his head. 
It is made of pie pieces of orange and purple. 
He waves his arms, and roars and gurgles and 
screams his joy at this blossom day of spring. 
With a fat, pink foot he pounds a rattle. 



24 



VII 



My canary and my baby sing to me when the 
soft light touches the western wall. I give my 
canary water. I give my baby milk. And then 
I go to sleep again. I am stupidly unaware 
of the morning joy of my baby and my canary. 



25 



VIII 

Hail, little toy-grabber! Hail, O brother baby! 
Where are you gone? The quail are calling for 
you in the canyon. There is a shining new 
shovel in the sand-pile. And I want you, O 
my brother baby. You may have the wagon 
and the watering-pot. I will give you the 
biggest pieces. I will help you gather the 
eucalyptus cups. Without you it isn't any fun. 
Come back, O my brother baby! 



26 



IX 

Darling. And dearest. And little baby love- 
bud, sweeter and neater than a rose. Fairer 
and rarer than a lover in the springtime, little 
baby kinglet tickle-toes! I want to taste you. 
I want to smell you. I want to hear you 
gurgle, bubble, crow. I want to love you 
unutterably. I want to cherish you so tenderly. 
I want to help you, old wobble-head, to be a 
troubadour in a sad world. 



27 



SANTA FE LIMITED 

AND 

DESERT SKETCHES 



SANTA FE LIMITED. 
I IN THE MORNING. 

In the morning, rows of olive trees, their 
branches tipped with silver, shining upward. 
The desert and new cotton fields and gins. 
Barren henna foot-hills. Flocks of sheep with 
Mexican shepherds and burros and dogs. Pale 
green snow on the horizon mountains. Long 
stretches of sun on blue-green alfalfa fields. 
Dark grey fir trees in masses beneath the 
clouds. After Tehachapi, mirages on either 
side. Clear sheets of blue water below the 
purple needles of the mountains. And the 
desert. Always the desert. For miles a stern 
and mysterious bosom. The red bluffs at 
Pinta, Holbrook, Adamana, have white 
embroidery of snow. In Arizona the rivers of 
sand are flowing to the mountains. And the 
mountains are flowing down to meet them. 
Inside the train, cards and the flipping of 
words. Outside, the desert. Always the 
desert, silent, mysterious. 



31 



II TOURIST FROM IOWA. 

Say, look at that cliff! Now really, Isn't 
Nature beautiful? Of course, only an Indian 
would live here. But what is more wonderful 
than Nature, after all. Now there's a nice 
thing to paint. Lovely, that canyon, the way 
Nature has shaped it all out. Talk about the 
Canadian Rockies, they couldn't be any 
handsomer than this. Do your eyes hurt? 
Mine do, looking at all this scenery since we 
left Los Angeles. There's really too much to 
see. It's a quarter after eleven now. Porter, 
when do we eat? 



3^ 



Ill SANTA FE. 



We are here at last! At this citadel, the end of 
the trail. The palace of the governors, this 
city of the holy faith. At the mountains of 
the Blood of Christ I will meet you. I will meet 
you when the mountains are touched with the 
blood of the sun. Let us kiss and part quickly. 
At the mountains of the Blood of Christ. 



33 



IV TWO MEN. 



Ain*t it a pity they don't cultivate this land? 

No water. 

Well, give it to the soldiers, I'll say. 



34 



V THE TRAINS. 

The trains are weaving into Chicago. Have 
you seen them weaving into Chicago? 
Shuttle engines, warp of stiff steel rails. From 
the east, from the north, from the south, 
from the west, northeast, northwest, southeast, 
southwest, from the desert and from the 
mountains, from the snow and from the sun, 
the trains are weaving into Chicago. 
Through the ugly tapestry of tenemented 
streets the trains are weaving into Chicago. 



35 



VI INDIAN PUEBLO. 

An Indian pueblo in New Mexico was very 
quiet in the afternoon sun. After the grinding 
sigh of the brakes, silence and the desert. And 
the desert's people who live in beauty. White 
and yellow adobe houses with blue doorways 
surrounded by peach trees in pink bloom. An 
old Indian, wrapped in a white blanket, stood 
on the top roof of the pueblo. He stood 
silently looking across the desert to the 
sacred mountains. Below Indian women were 
making black pottery, baking it in mud ovens. 
An old woman in a red blanket did not raise 
her eyes to the train. 



36 



VII IN THE NIGHT. 

In the night, Colorado, prairie Kansas. 
Uneasy sleep and noises of the railroad yards. 
Flashings of lanterns, shuntings, husky 
voices. The train slips through the night, 
running, triumphant. In the silences, 
comfortable snorings. The desert and the 
prairie are left behind. And the people who 
live in beauty. In the night the trains are 
weaving into Chicago. Shuttle engines, warp 
of stiff steel rails. Through the ugly tapestry 
of tenemented streets the trains are weaving 
into Chicago. 



37 



TRAIN VENDER. 



Folks, your attention now. To the left as we 
round the next curve you'll catch a glimpse of 
the Sauger d'Christy Mountains. This means 
Blood of Christ. Be ready now, and you'll 
get a real view. They're covered with snow 
now, but when those ancient padres first saw 
them they were red with the sunset. Hence 
the name. I have here some smoked glasses 
just dimmed enough to take away the glare. 
They are ventilated at the sides and specially 
fitted to the head. Fifty cents a pair. Who's 
taking care of the eyes? Thank you, sir. 
Thank you, ma'am. Got any goggles, lady? 
No, thank you, man. I am resisting you. 
Your technique is too perfect. 
Ladies and gentlemen, glance now to your 
right. The Collegiate Rockies. Those three 
high fellers are called Harvard, Yale and 
Princeton. I have here some lemon drops, if 
any of you feel this mountain sickness. Ten 
cents a package, crisp and snappy. We're 
going to be on the top of the world in a minute 

38 



now. Ten thousand, two hundred and forty- 
two feet. The station is called Tennessee Pass. 
Here Uncle Sam maintains a post office, so you 
can make the folks at home happy with some 
of these view-folders. All the points of interest 
for twenty cents. Thank you, ma'am. Thank 
you, sir. Lady, don't you want to make 
someone at home happy? 
No, thank you, man. I am resisting you for 
the good of your soul. 

To the right now, look sharp. And you'll see 
a gold mine in operation. Now folks, I have 
some nice fresh figs right from California. 
They're just packed and very juicy. Only 
fifteen cents and right from California. Who 
says prices are not down? Your money back 
if these figs are not delicious. Thank you, 
ma'am. Thank you, sir. Ain't you hungry 
this afternoon, lady? What can I get you, 
ma'am? Some nice peanuts, oranges, 
chocolate-covered cherries, chewing-gum or 
scenic playing cards? A magazine now, maybe. 
Or a real good book? 
No, thank you, man. 
Lady, you been on this route before? I don't 



39 



think so now, cause Vm pretty good at 

remembering faces. 

I'll wager you are, man. 

An apple, lady.^ Let me get you a wine-sap 

right from these Colorado trees. 

All right, brother. You win. And a truce 

with an apple, a dark red wine-sap from 

these Colorado trees. There is no way of 

escaping you. You are a convincing American, 

an alluring salesman of the Blood of Christ 

or lemon drops. 



40 



RITUAL. 



I place myself on this high altar. In the 
white sunlight of the desert. I wrap myself 
in white, woven cloths. In the white silence 
of the desert. I set a censer of song and two 
prayer feathers. In the white sunlight of the 
desert. I may not have the prayer of my body 
and of my heart. But I will live near a white 
flame. In the white silence of the desert. 



STAR. 



Pale and high, the evening star glimmers, 
frostily, in the north, where I am. It glows 
with fire, in the south, where you are. 
Everything glows, in the south, where you are. 



42 



DESERT SONG 



Kacha, my love bird, how goes it with thee 
in the desert? An exile speaks. Does the 
yellow moon go yearning over the mountains 
to the south P Does the yellow moon go 
yearning over the mountains to the south? 
Ah, I know it does. For I feel the call of it 
in me, here. Heart of me, goodnight! 
Goodnight ! 



43 



DESERT NOON. 



My feet are great iron weights hanging miles 
from my body. My hands are low-lying ranges 
of ribbed rock reaching to each horizon. My 
head is a great bowlder of pictured stone on a 
slender hill-top. Only my heart is here, strong 
as the sun's heat. When the afternoon is 
unendurable, and we crawl into the shadow 
of the adobe, my heart is fresh and lightly 
moving. 



44 



TO MARGERY. 



Someday, in memory, some vagrant breeze 
will bring to you the fragrance of your soul 
that night of desert rain. And of my hair. 
When you are massive and definite you will 
remember,-a handkerchief. And you will 
know I have been with you always. 



45 



HOOF TUNE. 



Hoof beats on the desert on a moonlight night. 
Do they come to me? Do they come to me? 
Horse and rider are one to-night. Does he come 
to me? Does he come to me? Call of coyote 
on the mesa height shrills to the exquisite 
torture of the night. Shall we ride, shall we 
dance as one to-night. Is he coming to me? 
Is he coming to me? 



46 



DESERT RETURN. 



Night and silence. And the desert wide. Luring 
the soul to its infinite stride. A moon so near, 
so roundly clear above the southern mountain 
host. O, desert mountains, to you at last! 
Desert mountains, to you I ride. In your blue 
canyons let me abide. Moon of the desert, 
welcome me. Peace of the desert, set me free. 
Gods of the desert, quicken me, to love, to 
live in this country. 



47 



MOODS 



The night with stars is full of mystery. 
Infinitude. But some there are who are afraid 
of mystery. The day is theirs. The lighted, 
measured day. Give me the night with eyes 

to see great outlines. The night all 

worlds are mine. 



51 



II 

I was a long and slender vessel. I drifted with 
the winds. I shifted with the tides. With every 
motion of the lovely, loving water beneath my 
breast, the shining peacock water, the tossing 
grey water, the foaming white water, I moved. 
On the eddies of rowboats I bobbed. On the 
long swells of ocean-goers I rode. I was a long 
and slender vessel. I drifted with the winds. . . . 
but only the length of my mooring line. 



52 



Ill 



Like a sea anemone, when anything comes 
near, I fold myself away. You may hold me in 
your hand. You may collect me for your sea 
garden. But the eye of my soul is watching 
you behind many barriers. Under the yellow 
cliffs at night, in my purple, rocky bed, 
with my rose and red companions I open my 
heart to the lovely light of the moon. 



53 



IV 

I cannot ride on this high wave of the spirit 
with you any longer. My roots go deeply into 
a warm and fragrant earth. Are you always 
so rare, so finely spirited? Or do you, too, long 
sometimes for the warm hand of a friend on 
your breast? Perhaps, tomorrow, spring in 
the soul of me will send forth a thin flower to 
touch with you your far world of dreams and 
colored song. But not today. Today I want to 
sleep in the sun. I cannot ride on this high 
wave of the spirit with you any longer. 



54 



Oh, gods in glory, whom men made,-and 
women, especially women,— do you want to 
stay there? If you do, give heed! Give heed 
to the crowds, the ugly crowds. Give heed to 
the human mass that seethes and breathes 
and breeds in drains of cities. Give heed to the 
drift that only pulses to a horizon. Oh, gods 
in glory, whom men made,-and women, 
especially women,-give heed to the crowds. 
They do not give you increase. 



55 



VI 

Driftwood of the soul, what shall I do with you ? 
If I leave you upon the shore you will be 
washing out only to surge back again, tossed 
by sure tides. I do not need you now. 
My fuel is gathered for the winter. It is 
stacked in neat piles. I know. I will burn 
you. And in the purple magic, copper green 
and blue I'll glimpse the wonders that I might 
have lived. The sailor says that drift's the 
thing to make the dreams come out. 



56 



VII 



The god I would be and the thing I am play 
merry ball with grotesque posturings. They 
leap upon the hills and strike. They grovel 
cunningly and catch. But today I wish I were 
a man to walk the middle way, serene, 
like you, an honest artist. 



57 



VIII 

I am a singer and a lover. I gaze into my 
mirror at my mouth. The sun shines into my 
mirror and touches my mouth. And all my 
being expands into a wish for you, for you to 
touch my mouth. I gaze into my mirror and I 
sing to you. I watch my lips which breathe 
your name. And I know all history as a song 
of love. I am a singer and a lover. 



58 



IX 



I am in armor, shining. And through the 
glinting of my casque my eyes are shining wells 
of fire. Then do not hold to me your hands. 
I strike them with my sword. And do not ask 
me with your eyes, or call my name. 
For I step proudly on the highway. I am in 
armor, shining. 



S9 



It passed, my mood of passion. But while it 
lasted, my reach was to the stars, to the heart 
of the earth, to the far horizons, east and west. 



60 



XI 



Take your loneliness away with you. And hide 
it. Hide it under laughter and careless words. 
Take your shyness away with you. And hide it. 
Hide it behind proud eyes. If people are not 
wise enough to know you lonely and shy, 
let them think you gay and proud. 
And come to me. 



6i 



XII 

Someday, when there is no need but the need 
of your beauty, my face, I will give you 
the need of your beauty, the meed of your 
beauty, oh, my lovely face. I will hang an 
aquamarine crystal in the shadows of your neck, 
the shadows of your eyes, the shadows of 
your lips. Someday, when there is no need 
but the need of your beauty. 



62 



XIII 



If you just keep putting on things you'll be 
dressed. If you just keep doing things they'll 
be finished. If you will not think you'll forget. 
And if you dress and do things and do not think 
you'll grow old successfully. 



63 



XIV 

To-night I want only negative things. Cold 
and need and loneliness. I want to go naked 
into fresh, dark air. Today I have had too 
much. I have eaten too much. I have worn 
too much. 



64 



XV 



The day quickens. With lines of rose and 
green the sky is rayed above the foot-hills. 
From out the inner dusk the tiny sounds of 
life begin, a touching of the leaves, the moving 
of small birds, uneasy mutterings of valley 
trains. I cannot sleep. Impotently I turn from 
side to side. From side to side I turn my 
thoughts impotently. A rat is running in the 
wall. Marauding dissonance, made large by 
the wall's emptiness. 



65 



XVI 

A blue jay's screech is the only affirmation. 
The twihght is grey. Let me sing to you my 
paUnode. My song of evening. My faith has 
gone adventuring. My faith has gone 
adventuring. In other Hves. In other Hves. 
A thin moon watches me insensibly. 
The fog creeps with ribbon fingers into the 
canyons. And into the depths of me. 



66 



MISCELLANEOUS 



YOUR VERSE, 



Has it the glory of a flame at night? Has it 
the magic of an opal's light? Is it divine, mad, 
wild, a tree-god's reaching dream? Or is it 
peaceful, full of majesty, an overwhelming 
rhythmic stream, made of great harmonies and 
slow-born melodies? Can it crash cymbals, 
echoing, echoing, up and down,-an age, 
round and round,-a world, vibrating to the 
stars? And does it dance, and can it leap and 
sing? And soothe, and make us understand? 
Has it the passion of a desert night? Is it a 
whimsy, light so light,-a feather tendril, 
perhaps? Is it a wisp, is it a sob on the wind, 
the thinnest sweetness of a harp, struck out 
of doors? Is it the fullest sound of orchestra 
with cellos and Italian lungs? Yes? Turquoise, 
amethyst and jade,-but does it make you see 
the colors, see the amber gleam, and peacock 
iridescent, subtlest grey? Yes? And does 
it make you climb and climb, and cling and 
cling with bleeding fingers? No? We ask our 
questions madly? Then let us laugh horribly, 



69 



an orange satyr putting fingers to our mouths, 
grotesquely whistling. That's it, a shrunken 
gourd that once in the yellow sun lured with its 
rounded promise. You call yourself a poet? 
Peace. We're weary-souled. Glorious illusion, 
luring form of other world we here but charcoal 
clumsily,-the word of a God through stupid 
lips. 



70 



ALASKA SKETCHES. 



I want to meet a mate at the head of the Yukon. 
I want to float in an old rowboat down the 
Yukon with a month's provisions. Twenty-one 
hundred miles, I want to float. When we come 
to small towns, posts on the islands, camps in 
the forests, we'll chin in the sun. We'll fish and 
we'll hunt. We'll sleep under the stars for 
twenty-one hundred miles of the Yukon. 
Why must I work in a shoe factory? 



71 



II 

The river was filled with the salmon, with the 
turgid passion of the salmon in the springtime. 
They moved slowly upward to the northern hills. 
They moved heavily upon their errand of life. 
They threw themselves up cataracts, leaped 
shallow pools, pushed each other gaping upon 
the banks. They slashed their bodies upon 
rocks and jammed their heads between logs. 
In the silence of northern hills, in icy northern 
pools they died. And millions of new salmon 
sought the sea, to live, to play, only to return 
to those icy northern pools, to spawn, to die. 



72 



DREAMS. 



I was seeking his soul as a color, purple. 
It was a dream in a vague world of dreams. 
And he was seeking mine, a dull, sea green. 
But in an underworld of seeking forms and 
merging colors another soul, more brilliantly- 
green, bewildered him. At last we met. 
In a perfect meadow at sunrise. A wild iris 
and its sheath. A green flycatcher chattered on 
a fence. 



73 



II 

Trees and clouds and bats. And fat Chinese 
with strange, flat hats. Embroidered on an 
ancient altar cloth. These were part of the 
dream. And I was floating on a silken stream, 
stitched by deft fingers in another world. 
And did it only seem, the little hillocks, blue 
and gold, the grotesque flowers, surely bold? 
Orange and purple the maker's scheme. 

I was very young in the dream I was a 

foundling soul, wrapped in an ancient altar 
cloth. 



74 



NEW YORK, MAY 



Today defeated winter sits brooding under a 
sullen sky. He bites his nails between gusty 
snorts. Now why can't he be gracious when 
everyone knows he is in love with the spring. 



75 



CHARIOT OF THE DEAD. 



A motor hearse went flashing by 
triumphantly black and silver in the 
April sunlight. But all the children 
stopped their play to gaze after 
it as it skidded round a corner. 



76 



CEMETERY. 



Home burial park. Artistic locations for 
mausoleums. One hundred acres of landscape 
and lawn, trees and grassy knolls. Expert 
care of graves. Eight minutes from the city by 
motor hearse. Get our terms. 
Get my terms, soul. Take your body to a clean, 
quick fire that it may be sweet in death. 
And, soul. If it be the springtime in New 
England, blow the dust of me by the roots of 
a pink dogwood that blossoms outward in 
shelves of color. I thank you, soul. You have 
loved this body. 



77 



LOITERER. 



Am I a loiterer on these premises? I am a 
loiterer upon the earth. If I am a loiterer on 
these premises I am liable to be prosecuted to 
the full extent of the law. So the sign says,- 
the law of the midland subway company. 
But if I am a loiterer upon the earth I think I 
am liable to be blessed to the full extent of 
the law. 



78 



YOUNG BOY. 



Young life, young lust, young love are in my 
heart with the singing spring. And is there 
anything else? Black death, black dearth, black 
despair? Perhaps. But they belong to the 
winter. To the old winter. 



79 



SPRING. 



Spring, the eternal dear, has been on a visit 
to western parts. She says she grew tired of 
being so steadily beautiful. She is flirting with 
me. She is coaxing me and luring me back to 
love her again. Spring, the eternal dear. 



80 



LOUISE. 



Putting away, putting away, I spend half 

of the glorious day, putting away that others 

may find when they wish to play. 



8i 



PORTRAIT. 



There, hold your head. This light is wonderful. 
I can see the iris in your eyes. And that singing 
purple, am I to get it.'^ Blue and red and the 
sunlight. Sometimes one feels it an impertinence 
to paint, especially things as paintable as you. 
A red complexion is so difficult to do, so fine. . . . 
the blues that come around the nose and throat. 
Now rest your neck, that long, long neck. 
I know it needs it. And poke the fire. 
But don't look at this. It must be further along. 
Ah, what a maddening piece of flesh you are. 
I look at you, and you are lavender. 
I look again and you're a yellow green. 
I can but play these colors to catch the beauties 
that elude me. Your mouth was made to paint 
or kiss. Perhaps you're just as glad I am the 

artist. That bone I have it now. 

It bothered me. It's strange a thing so different 
could be so surely you. 



82 



FORD SEDAN. 



A Ford sedan is so nice for a college professor. 
It is so snug and grey and so easy to run. 
From the house to the laboratory. From the 
laboratory to the house. From the house to the 

laboratory And then, its price is 

proletarian. Its mission aristocratic. 



83 



CAMPUS GIRL. 



Sculptured hair. And eyes as hard. But a 

soft mouth oh, the weakness of me ! Her 

mouth was a flower of quince and orange that 
tried to hold my life. 



84 



MAHLER SYMPHONY. 



O, the glory of the soul of man, the basses 
thundered, the brasses pseaned. And the beauty 
of the soul of woman, the violins breathed, 
the wood-winds sang. The glory of the soul 
of man, the beauty of the soul of woman,- 
the wonder of the world,-belled, rocked, 
plunged, shrieked, waved, danced, sawed, 
drummed the symphony. The lady on my 
right said she hoped the meat had come for 
supper. The lady on my left said she had 
forgotten to lock the back door. 



85 



KNOWLEDGE. 



What every woman knows it is no 

beauty secret, rare and old. It is not how to 
cherish men, or how to love a child. 
It is a greater knowing. What every woman 
knows, surely, is, that she can wear navy blue. 



86 



TO A DAHLIA IN A SHOW. 



You lovely scarlet gesture. Breath and blood. 
I like your smell of summer mud. But better, 
I like the neatness of your escape from a 
bourgeois border. You lovely scarlet gesture. 
Breath and blood. 



87 



A WOMAN I KNOW. 



A woman I know creates. She makes carvings, 
lines and fabrics. She makes children, food 
and flowers. She dyes long threads in a colored 
maze and weaves them into beauty's strand. 
She plays. She plays with a moon of song. 
With her feet purple in sun-warmed grapes she 
puts her lips to a star's breast. The breath that 
is a part of the large winds of the world passes 
through her. 



88 



WE PRAYED. 



I prayed that I might reach your soul, 
that I might be worthy. I prayed. 
You laughed. That I could be humble! 
But I was terrible. You laughed. 
And then I laughed and you prayed. 



89 



THREE WISHES. 



I wish I had a fat soul that did not tremble 
when beauty touched me. I wish I could sit 
by a window all day and have the sun reflected 
by my placidity. I wish I could look into your 
eyes and lie unflinchingly. 



90 



TO A HUMMING BIRD. 



You lovely little tuft of glory, humming, 
drumming, round my Spanish broom. Your 
rufflet is so impudently splendid it needs your 
mate to bring the world to tone. 
You little exquisite, be for a moment still, 
that I may have your beauty, at my will. 



RESISTANCE. 



Against the clamoring passion of you I can 
measure a day when I saw a cornfield stained 
with blood. It had the new hush of oblivion 
©ver it. 



92 



SEASONS. 



My warm hand upon my face is beautiful in 
the winter. My cold hands are beautiful upon 
my thighs in the summer. My two souls are 
one in the spring. And in the fall I sleep. 



93i 



FOR GLORIA. 



Lift your body up to me, slim and straight 
as a young birch tree. And as white. 
Under the glory of your hair that is so pale 
and thick and rare, my delight! And then,- 
reach until you pass me by. Until your reach 
is to the sky. Through the night. 



94 



FROM GLORIA. 



You said you loved my hair. You said, 

It is all mine. This glory. Red with purple 

shadows. We were Life's lovers. 

With each quickening breath, we dreamed. 

We dared. And you are dead. And I 

I have my riotous mass that no man sees. 



95 



LOSS. 



Many springs I have turned to the new life, 
felt the old illusion. With the rain in the wind 
and the grass in its birth I have renewed my 
faith. But now you are gone and the spring 
has come. And there is no change in me. 
I am like the brown leaves on the live oak. 
They touch the moving green, but they are 
dead and hard. Only the fury of the storm 
can change them now. 



96 



AQUAMARINE. 



Some lovely things endure because they are 
the life of Beauty. Aquarmarine beads like 
your eyes and like the sea in shallow edging 
pools. Nine hundred years ago they touched 
the throat of a Chinese princess. Some lovely 
things endure because they are the life of 
Beauty. Today they touch your throat, your 
vainly lovely throat. 



97 



JADE. 



When the slender neck of my jade maiden is 
encircled by my necklace she is infinitely remote. 
She is infinitely alluring. It hangs between her 
two young breasts. It is the green of glacial 
ice, of hidden northern seas. Its light is as 
soft as starlight. It protects her from all evil. 



98 



HEELS. 



No heels for the dawning, the early tip of the 
dawning. And no soles for the matter of that, 
with the Irish grass to run upon. Low heels 
for the morning, the very top of the morning. 
Low, good heels to do my work upon. And for 
the afternoon, when I walk in to Derry.? 
Oh, a sober heel about an inch and a half. 
But high heels for the evening. Oh, high French 
heels ^for Jerry! Light heels, slender heels, 
shining high, high heels, for Jerry and the 
dance! 



99 



HOUSE AT CARMEL. 



April and two pale young moons. In the clouds 
and on the sea. Hiding, dancing, beckoning to 
the wind to set them free. April and the serried 
coast. With ghost waves breaking high on 
phantom rocks that hold their breasts to the 

shock of the rhythmic tide who but a 

man could build a wall against the ocean's sigh? 



lOO 



MIRAFLORES. 



Miraflores of the saints, on the plain outside of 
Burgos. Take a low carriage along the road 
where the poplars touch by the river. 
Dark, grey walls and bare and distant hills. 
Wait at the gate with the beggars who whine in 
the sun. And within? Peace. An ancient 
brother in a white Carthusian gown blesses you. 
He leads you to the treasure of the church, 
the marble wonder of de Siloe. Where Isabella's 
parents lie, under immortal effigies. 
Paintings, altars, iron screens, he shows you 
patiently. And patiently he answers many 
questions. He never heard of Chicago. 
And France,-he never had been there. 
But he would show me his rose garden. 
Peace. And beauty. And uncommon sense. 



imi 



HUMMING. 



There's a singing in my heart with the wind. 
With the wind in its full rhythm as it beats 
around the world. With the wind. 
Over northern pine and mountain. Through the 
desert to the ocean. There's a singing in my 
heart with the wind. There's a singing in my 
heart with the wind. With the wind in its wide 
motion from the desert to the ocean. 
There's a singing in my heart with the wind. 



102 



CHRISTMAS WISH. 



Now the sun turns to a New Year. 
And many men rejoice in newer births and 
holy days. May you rejoice with sun and man. 
With gods and men may your spirit leap and 
sing. 



103 



LR, 



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